CHAPTER NINE
“YOU’RE GOING TO MOLLY’S FUNERAL this afternoon, aren’t you?”
“Why, hello and good morning to you, too, Cate,” Amelia groans. She’s lying on top of her neatly made bed in her bra and undies, a towel wrapped around her head.
Cate laughs hard into the phone. “I’m right, though, aren’t I?”
Amelia lets out a long exhale. Across the room are three outfit choices her mom said would be good choices for her bank interview on Tuesday. They also happen to work for a funeral, an irony not lost on Amelia. She rolls over onto her stomach and presses her face into her pillow. “If you want to know the truth, I’m trying to talk myself out of going, so it’s a good thing you called. You can tell me how silly I’m being.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because, like you said, I didn’t even know her,” Amelia admits.
“That’s true. Also, to that excellent point, I’d add that although you found her dead body, it doesn’t mean you must personally shepherd Molly Meade into the afterlife. Plus, you’ve never been to a funeral before. They aren’t romantic like you’re thinking. They’re mad boring.” The phone is muffled for a second as Cate switches from one ear to the other. “Actually, when I die, make sure and tell my mom I don’t want any of that stuff. I want a party. With expensive champagne. And dancing.”
“Sure thing. For the record, I don’t think funerals are romantic. I think they’re sad. But these are very sound reasons to skip it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Though I think you should go.”
“Why?”
“If you don’t, you’ll feel terrible. That’s just who you are, Amelia. You’re a good person.”
Amelia smiles for the first time that day. “So what are the chances I can convince you to come be a good person with me?”
“Somewhere in the range of impossible to totally impossible. I have to be at JumpZone for training. Apparently, there’s a whole protocol about how to disinfect an inflatable if a kid pees or pukes. Which, as the newest employee, I’m sure is a responsibility that will fall to me.”
“You could work at the bank with me!” Her mom said only one teller position was open, not two, but maybe if Amelia begged, she could get it approved.
“Ewww. I’d have to dress up. Also, you know I love your mom, but I can’t imagine working for her. It’s one thing when I show up late to your house for dinner, but if I’m late to work?” Cate starts cracking up. “Oh my God, Amelia. Imagine if your mom had to fire me. How awkward would that be?”
“It was worth a shot.”
“Hey, text me after the funeral. If the timing works, I’ll come pick you up.”
Amelia goes with the black scoop-neck bodysuit and pale pink pleated skirt and her gray suede ankle booties with the low heel because she plans to walk over to Holy Redeemer. It isn’t far, maybe a mile, and riding a bike feels unsuitable. She does a braid crown that wraps around her head and pins the end behind her ear with a bobby pin. Just a little makeup, tasteful, some blush and mascara and a glossed lip. On her way out the door, she doubles back, pulls a few tissues from the box in the foyer, and stuffs them into her purse. There’s no way she’s getting through this dry-eyed.
* * *
Holy Redeemer is a small church, but even with a handful of people in every pew, it still feels sparse, especially when compared to the normal Sunday mass crowd. There are the old people who probably come to anything church related, a few of the regular customers, Sand Lake’s mayor. The first pew has been left open for family. But Molly Meade doesn’t have any, so it’s empty.
Amelia looks around for any other stand girls who might have shown up. She thought about sending a text out, but she didn’t want to make the girls feel bad if they weren’t planning to go. And apparently, no one else was. She’s the youngest person there by far. She takes her seat in a row halfway between the altar and the door. People around her whisper.
“No one has seen her for so long. I wonder if it’ll be open casket.”
“I doubt the farmhouse is worth much.”
“The property it’s on could sell for a pretty penny to one of those housing developers.”
Mrs. Otis takes her place at the piano and begins to play. Amelia flips through one of the hymnals simply for something to look at. She never, ever sings.
After two somber songs, the doors at the back of the church open and everyone stands up. Amelia gets nervous that there won’t be anyone to wheel in the casket, except there is no casket. Only an urn, which Father Caraway, despite being ninety-something years old, carries up the aisle himself. For that, Amelia feels both relieved and sad.
Father’s head is completely bald except for his eyebrows, which are white and bristly like two caterpillars. He positions himself behind the lectern, then with a shaking hand, pulls a pair of smudged reading glasses out from the folds of his robe and anchors them on the pink bulb of his nose.
“Ice Cream So Sweet, You Won’t Miss Your Sweetheart.” Father looks up and smiles tenderly. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Meade Creamery’s original slogan.” The entire church nods. “A similar adage might be When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade. Or Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining. This is how Molly Meade lived her life.”
Amelia’s attention begins to drift. Father comes to the stand once a month in the summertime, in his black clerical shirt and white tab collar, black pants, and a fraying Panama hat that looks about as old as he does. Father’s regular order is a single scoop of chocolate with hot fudge and a cherry, which he tries to pay for with a handful of change. The girls never take his money, but he’ll put however many quarters he’s brought in their tip jar.
Father lifts his head, removes his glasses, and slides them into the folds of his robe. After a chest-rattling cough, he says, “I happened to be with Molly Meade the night she became engaged to a fellow named Wayne Lumsden.”
At this, Amelia leans forward in the pew, elbows on her knees. She knows well the tragic story of Molly and Wayne, or, more specifically, the ending. But nothing about happier times. When it all began.
“I was a newly ordained priest around the time of the war when I arrived at this parish.” Father dabs his forehead. “There was no time to get comfortable, no chance for me to ease into things. Not when every week, another family was sending their boys off, boys only a few years younger than myself.”
Father went on. “It was customary in those days for the priest to visit the family, bless a final meal before they departed, and lead a prayer asking for the boy’s safety. As you can imagine, this was generally not a festive occasion. There would be so much wonderful food, prepared with love, that nobody felt like eating.
“I shared two meals with the Meade family in a year, one for each of Molly’s brothers—Patrick and Liam. The third time I was asked was the following fall, because a fellow named Wayne Lumsden was shipping out at the end of September. Wayne didn’t have much in the way of family. When he passed through Sand Lake looking for work, the Meades essentially took him in and gave him a job at their dairy, which speaks to the sort of generous, kind Irish Catholic family they were.”
Amelia realizes this must be the reason why over the years she’s heard plenty of anecdotes about Molly Meade and never much about Wayne Lumsden. He wasn’t actually from Sand Lake.
“Now, the good Lord sprinkled Molly and Wayne with the same stardust he must use to make movie stars.” Father’s face spreads into a smile. “And to the surprise of no one in town, they fell deeply in love.”
There are a few polite chuckles.
“I’d heard countless sad stories of men at war, of people lost and hurt and killed. In a way, this seemed almost sadder. That these two youngsters, in the prime of their lives and very much devoted to each other, were about to be ripped apart.” He takes a sip of water. “When Mrs. Meade brought out a chocolate cake, I was trying to come up with an acceptable excuse to pass on having a slice. But then Wayne pulled a diamond ring out of his pocket and asked Molly for her hand in marriage. Molly said yes immediately. And a melancholy night became one of celebration.”
Amelia can see it playing in her head like a movie: Young Molly, her handsome boyfriend down on one knee, maybe even in his uniform. Her laughing and crying. Him sliding the ring onto her finger, shaking her father’s hand.
At this, her mouth drops open. The photo hanging in the stand—of Molly and Wayne, her hand outstretched, fall foliage around them—was likely taken that day. Amelia takes a tissue from her purse and dabs her eyes.
“Now, Wayne, as you know, never made it home from the war, may God rest his soul. But God did not forsake His lovely child, Molly. Instead, the Lord bestowed on her the gift of making ice cream, which comforted her through this profound loss. He works in mysterious ways, and this, I promise you, is one of them. Despite her own suffering, Molly continued to do His work, bringing joy into the lives of countless others for all these years. And for that reason, I have faith that—”
The church doors open suddenly and three people hurry up the aisle, a man and a college-age boy, both in tailored navy suits, and a woman in a black dress and a chunky strand of pearls. Amelia has never seen them before.
Father Caraway clears his throat to refocus the churchgoers and gestures at the sky as he resumes. “I have faith that, because of her service, the Lord has rewarded Molly by reuniting her with her true love Wayne, up in heaven.”
* * *
After the memorial, Amelia exits the church and exchanges a couple of quick texts with Cate, who says she can be there in fifteen minutes. As Amelia slips her phone into her purse, the boy in the suit passes her at a quicker pace than the other people emerging into the sunlight. He’s on his phone, urgently tapping away with one hand, while the two people Amelia assumes are his mother and father trail behind him, speaking quietly with each other.
She keeps the boy in the corner of her eye, looking but trying not to be obvious about it. Amelia doesn’t often see boys wearing expensive suits. It’s the color—a deep, almost velvety blue—that gives it away. And it fits him perfectly. It suddenly strikes her how frumpy the guys looked at senior prom, rented tuxes too tight across their shoulders, dress shirts not pressed. Also, this boy’s shoes are cool. Whiskey-brown wing-tip oxfords that he’s threaded with bright orange laces. The leather is rich and shiny—not a scuff on them.
The boy looks up from his phone and scans the crowd. When his eyes land on her, Amelia smiles a polite smile. This is apparently enough of an invitation for him to walk over.
“Hey,” he says. Like they know each other.
“Um. Hello.”
Amelia hates that her cheeks are heating up. He is that handsome. Tall and lean, but still muscular, like the boys who become lake lifeguards. He’s tan, with freckles, and his hair is brown, cut tight to the sides and left a little long on top, enough for it to roll into a soft curl. Father Caraway would definitely call him “movie-star handsome.”
He undoes the button of his suit jacket with one hand. “Sad, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Did you know her well?”
“I was one of the girls who worked at her ice cream stand.”
“I figured,” he says, lifting his chin, apparently pleased with himself. He glances around. “Are any of the other girls here too?”
“No. Only me.” Amelia presses her lips together. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?” she asks, knowing they haven’t. She would have remembered. But it seems like the most polite way to find out who, exactly, he is.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Well. So . . . how do you know Molly?”
“She was my great-aunt, my grandfather’s sister.” He holds out his hand. “Grady Meade.” Sheepishly, he adds, “I feel terrible that we were late to this, but we got held up with some legal paperwork.”
“Oh my gosh! Wait. Really?” She cups his hand in both of hers. “We didn’t know Molly had any living family!” A few people look toward them, and Amelia quickly dials back the enthusiasm in her voice to something more funeral appropriate. “I’m Amelia Van Hagen. I’m so so so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” He glances down at his hand, still wrapped inside hers. “Thank you.”
Blushing, she quickly releases him. “I was the one who found her. And . . .” Amelia momentarily second-guesses saying the next part. But if it were her relative, she’d want to know. She lowers her gaze respectfully to the sidewalk. “I don’t think she suffered. She looked peaceful. Like she just needed a nap.” Her eyes begin to tear up and she fishes a fresh tissue from her purse.
He is taken aback by her emotion. “Um. Thanks. I’ll make sure to pass that along to my family.”
Amelia dabs at her eyes, recovering. “You’re welcome.”
Grady Meade scratches his head. “Can I ask you something, Amelia?”
“Of course.”
“Are you one of the girls who broke into the ice cream stand on Thursday night?”
The directness of his question leaves Amelia feeling wobbly. No lies come to mind despite how desperately she tries to conjure one. “We . . . we didn’t mean any harm. I promise. We wanted one last taste of her ice cream.”
He leans in conspiratorially. “Hey, look. No worries. I totally get it. I haven’t been out of high school that long. Me and my buddies used to pull the same kind of pranks. This one time, on Mischief Night, we broke into the cafeteria after hours and stole a box of five hundred frozen chicken fingers and Super Glued them onto the statue of our school’s founder. The whole next day, Halloween obviously, he looked like he was getting eaten alive by birds.”
For Amelia, there is no relief in being let off the hook. Rather, she is desperate to explain herself. Taking ice cream wasn’t some juvenile stunt. They did it because the stand meant so much to them. They had only wanted to say goodbye.
She struggles to say as much, but Grady waves her off. “For real, though, I’m hoping one of you girls has a key to the stand. I haven’t been able to find one at the farmhouse.”
“I do. I don’t have it with me right now, but I could run home and get it. I don’t live far.”
Grady seems to consider this, until he spots his mom and dad climbing into a black Mercedes. “We have to get back to our hotel. Can you drop by the stand tomorrow?”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
“Great. Let’s say eleven o’clock.” Grady types this into his phone, returns it to the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket, and walks away. As an afterthought, he looks back and adds, “Thanks.”
Cate pulls up to the corner in her pickup truck. “Who was that?” she asks as Amelia climbs in. “And you’ll have to speak up, because I’ve suffered permanent hearing loss from four back-to-back children’s birthday parties.”
Amelia watches Grady slip into the black Mercedes. “He’s a relative of Molly Meade. Her brother’s grandson.”
“What? No way!” Cate cranes her neck to see him better.
“Yes way.” Amelia rubs her temples. “They were the ones up at her house that night. And by the way, he totally knows we broke in.”
“Eek.”
“He wants me to show up at the stand tomorrow and give him my key.”
“Why are you bummed? He’s cute!”
Amelia slumps in her seat. The idea that anyone would think badly of her is one thing. The reality that a descendant of Molly Meade thinks she would do something as disrespectful as stealing ice cream from a dead woman’s stand is almost too much to bear.
“Do you think that’s all he wants? For me to return the key?”
Cate shrugs. “I mean, I guess there’s a chance he could ask you out. But it’s not like he lives around here, does he? So what would be the point?” She checks her mirrors and drives off. “Is that what you were thinking?”
It wasn’t. But the truth—that Amelia was hoping there might still be a chance for the ice cream stand—feels too embarrassing to admit.